Empty Teacups Gathered Around Her

I Take Almost No Notes When I Write. I Have One Notebook - This Old Green Leather Notebook That My Dad Gave Me A Decade Ago.

The Moment Had Passed, The Door Between The Lives We Could Have Led And The Lives We Led Had Shut In Our Faces.

We Search For Patterns, You See, Only To Find Where The Patterns Break. And It’s There, In That Fissure, That We Pitch Our Tents And Wait.

I Scowled At The World. And The World Scowled Back. We Were Locked In A Stare Of Mutual Disgust.

I Won't Waste Your Time With The Injuries Of My Childhood, With My Loneliness, Or The Fear And Sadness Of The Years I Spent Inside My Parents' Marriage, Under The Reign Of My Father's Rage, Afer All, Who Isn't A Survivor From The Wreck Of Childhood?